


Juliet I'd do the stars with you any time

by glowstojevskij



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Romeo and Juliet AU, and drunken conversations, mostly a giant nonsense, niall is there for all of two sentences, sort of, with a lot of fluff, without the deaths and the family feuds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstojevskij/pseuds/glowstojevskij
Summary: "I was on my balcony and you started loudly quoting Romeo and Juliet at me" -Or, a slightly revisited balcony scene.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> So, I was on tumblr and I saw this prompt post (which I can't seem to find again, so if somebody bumps into it and wants to tell me, I'd like to credit it) with the prompt "I was on my balcony and you started loudly quoting Romeo and Juliet at me" and I decided I just /had/ to write something on it. I also was in the library and I promptly (ha!) borrowed Romeo and Juliet and started to write. I believe this is the quickest I've ever wrapped up a one shot and yeah, quite happy I seemingly managed to start writing again.  
> Many thanks to [Holly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hollytabatha) for betareading it, as always <3

**L.**

So, Niall is a dick.

It’s a fact, and Louis thinks it should be common knowledge to the world. This is the reason why he is currently yelling it in the streets, as loud as he can master, while he drunkenly stumbles on the stupid cobblestones of this stupid pretentious city, trying to get home.

He has honestly always suspected so, but casually brushed it off because after all Niall was his best friend.

 _‘Was’_ being the key word here, since it’s evident, in the light of the most recent events, that this status doesn’t exempt him from being aim of his dickness.

Such a shame he has realised it only now, truly, when the lad is also his only friend available on this foreign soil. Liam would have never, ever done him like this, Louis’ sure.

It was all fun and games, as they were enjoying their first night out as exchange students in this shitty club, dancing with other students and drinking with no restraint shitty cocktail after shitty cocktail, because, like the shitty club and everything else in this shitty town, they’re so _cheap_ , compared to London.

So, it’s all still going smoothly, and Louis is even enjoying himself, rubbing in rhythm with the shitty music against a too perfumed, too built bloke, with too much wax in his hair, until the ungodly moment he hears somebody insistently tapping him on the shoulder.

“Lou, I’m going home with Francesca here,” tells him a glossy-eyed Niall, pointing at the girl he is holding hands with and directing Louis a quite annoying, quite ridiculous smirk, accompanied by a wink.

Louis immediately detaches himself from the guy, with the specific purpose to frown at Niall, and quite severely so. He actually puts so much effort in trying to pull his eyebrows together as much as he can that his head spins a bit as a result.

“What? No, no. _No._ You can’t have sex in our room, Niall.”

They share a room in one of the university accommodations, is the thing, and besides the room being very tiny and their beds being basically joined, even if Louis was the best roommate in the world- which is not the case- and agreed to leave it to him, they’re not allowed to bring guests inside the building anyway. And he’s not getting in trouble because of _Niall._

Like, that’s preposterous. It’s always the reverse that happens, if anything, and that’s how it should stay.

“Lou. I’m going to _her_ home,” tells him Niall, and his attempt at being smooth and subtle is jeopardised by the fact that he’s yelling to try and overcome the pounding volume of the music.

 _This_ is when Niall being a dick comes into the picture.

“And how am I supposed to get home?”

Niall can’t be forgetful to this point. He knows Louis is a disaster with directions and that he has the attention span of a three-year-old. How can he just _assume_ he paid importance to the route they took to come here? That’s just not Louis. And even if he had, these Italian streets are all so damn identical that it is impossible to get them right, full as they are of pastel buildings, paved in cobblestones and studded with peach trees, all because they have to look like a real life Renaissance painting for tourists to photograph and make their friends Timothy and Karen jealous.

“On your legs? Use Google maps, take a taxi, I don’t know.”

“But I don’t have internet data yet! And I don’t have enough money to get a taxi on my own!” Louis starts yelling, too, while people dance unperturbed around them and the girl Niall pulled starts to get quite annoyed, directing Louis a disdained glare and tapping one heeled foot on the ground. Well, see if he cares. And her dress is shit, anyway.

“Niall, you need to get me home!” Insists Louis, shaking the boy with a grip on his shoulders.

“Lou,” Niall pulls him in by the shirt and mumbles in his ear. “I pulled on my first night here. I’m not going to pass on _sex_ ,” he explains patiently, emphasis on the last word.

“Then you’ll get me home and you’ll come back,” says Louis resolutely, smiling confidently and tugging at Niall’s arm to urge him to go, flicking his fringe over his sweaty forehead.

His friend (ex-friend, more like) doesn’t move one step.

“No way. I’m not your parent. And surprisingly, you’re not a child. I’m going with her and you’ll deal with your carelessness alone. Hasta la vista baby.”

“That’s not even Italian!” Retorts Louis still yelling, eyes wide open. But Niall tragically disappears in a sea of dancing bodies, probably doesn’t even catch the remark and leaves Louis there, dumb and alone and in disbelief.

So, yeah. Niall is a dick.

And Louis is too drunk for this. What the hell is he going to do now? He can’t believe this is happening to him. He _definitely_ needs something strong to drink.

He looks at the pink cocktail in his hand he had forgotten about and he squeals, quite happy to find it there. He goes to take a sip, but then…actually.  Actually, he’s already quite tipsy as he is, and he realises there’s no way he can even _attempt_ to get home if he drinks more.

So, no. No more drinks for him. He looks one more time at the concoction, sadly, and then abandons it on a counter, waving at it and bringing one hand to his heart.

Not like he would be able to get home being sober, thinking of it. He can already see it, they will probably find him in a couple of years, dead in some roman necropolis, see as Italy is apparently full of those- or so the school books said- wasted away with thirst and hunger and cold as he wandered in search of his stupid university residence. He will make the headlines. He’s always thought he would have, sooner or later.

Maybe not exactly in this way though. He’s definitely too pretty to die. And he still has to finish watching Stranger Things.

Okay, he _needs_ to find an alternative.

But wait, maybe if he can’t remember the route home he could always try to use his incredible gift of attractiveness and charm to get somebody else to drop him off? _That,_ now, sounds like a quite solid plan.

He looks around himself at loss, trying to pinpoint a trustworthy enough face that he won’t have to worry about being kidnapped. He also starts to dance in the meanwhile, moving sensually, hoping somebody will approach him on their own initiative. Preferably somebody with a car and a good GPS updated with all the streets of Verona.

It...doesn’t happen.

Louis is quite disappointed, and frankly annoyed at the disregard these club-goers are reserving for him, but doesn’t give up. Maybe he just needs to change his strategy. Maybe the thing about Italians being forthright and Casanovas is just a myth. Maybe they need some encouragement.

He waits for a moment when the music is slightly lower, the DJ saying something in the microphone, then graciously jumps on a cube and shouts, cupping his mouth with two hands.

“WHO WANTS TO TAKE ME HOME?”

There. The trap is set. He can already see men all over the dancefloor starting to fight each other to buy him out, the club will turn into the Colosseum, like in the movie The Gladiator, there will be so much blood—

Except it doesn’t.

There is a moment, a split half of a second, where literally the whole club is looking at him, several mouths agape. Then the music restarts, and everybody is back to dancing carelessly.

Louis sighs.

He thought it would be a quite tempting offer, he’s even wearing the skinniest jeans he owns. But he only receives some more casual odd look, none of which is carrying the trace of desire he was hoping for.

Then, all of a sudden, as he tries not to drop his self-esteem to the core of the Earth, the bloke he was dancing with before Niall approached them makes himself closer to him, putting a hand on Louis’ hip.

“You can come home with me, beautiful,” he whispers in his ear, slurring somewhat languidly, in a strong Italian accent.

Louis’ eyes widen, and he looks back horrified. “No, no, I meant _my_ home,” he hurries as he tries to wriggle out and put some distance between them.

“Yeah, whatever you want works for me,” the guy moans, plastering himself to Louis’ front and encircling his waist, as his hands slide low. _Too low._

“No, stop, ew,” Louis jumps back, batting the lad’s hands away. He doesn’t want to have sex with this random bloke. He doesn’t want to have sex with anybody in here, period. “I just want to _get_ home _._ Can you walk me home? _Walk,_ ” He desperately tries to remember the word in Italian for walking, but to no avail. He resorts to mime the action, moving two fingers as if they were two legs and frantically waving the other hand for emphasis.

He’s totally nailing the Italian gestures thing, by the way.

Or maybe not, because the bloke is now looking at him as if he were an alien, and then moves away quickly, mumbling something unintelligible that doesn’t sound very nice.

Louis rolls his eyes, emitting a frustrated sigh. He thought his approach to Italian men would be smoother. So far, he’s quite disappointed. At least the guy went away though. Louis will be able to smell his hideous perfume for _days,_ even after showering, he’s sure.

So yeah, the guy went away, but the problem of how to get home didn’t.

Louis glances around once again, but nobody else seems eager to offer themselves for the task. What an _outrage_.

Fine, then. He’ll do it on his own. He’ll find home and everybody will _see_.

“Fine! I’ll find it on my own! I don’t need anybody, I’m an independent boy! I’ll show you Niall!”

He’s yelling, but nobody is- predictably- paying attention to him anyway, so his attempt at a dramatic exit goes unnoticed as he gets out of the club quietly, tail between his legs.

Outside, the fresh crisp air hits him, dilating his lungs and clearing his mind from the fuzziness of the alcohol and the club. He lights up a cigarette and after a couple of drags he feels sober enough to decide that they definitely came from the left earlier, so after finishing the smoke, subsiding a hiccup attack and giggling to himself, he embraces the road full of clubs and pubs, walking slowly and making sure he informs every single person he encounters on his way that Niall is a dick.

“What’s the Italian for dickhead? Because Niall is that,” he hiccups faintly, shaking his head.

“ _Testa di cazzo,_ ” answers back a guy, walking hand in hand with his girlfriend, who laughs at him. Or maybe at Louis, who even knows these days.

“Cheers,” says Louis politely, bringing two fingers to his forehead in salute and carrying on.

He’s pretty sure he’s guessed all the streets correctly for now, almost ready to sing in victory, when he reaches a kind of square garden that looks too unfamiliar to be right.

Louis wants to screech.

This stupid city with streets that are all the fucking _same_.

He wanted to go to Rome anyway. Like, when he applied for an exchange to Italy, he didn’t think they would have sent him to _Verona._ What a joke. Who would want to go there? It’s only known because of fucking Romeo and Juliet, and Juliet’s house is just a tourists’ trap, for the record.

He keeps walking along the street anyway. After taking a look at the square he turns left at the corner, because he’s spotted some shop lights. He figures that if he maybe can manage to remember one writing or one particular window all will make sense from then.

It will go like that: he’ll see a sign and he will hear a chorus of angels singing, will see a beam of golden light and suddenly find himself in front of the green front door— see, at least that detail he can remember—of the hall of residence.

Only the street is just full of restaurants on their way to closing and kebab shops completely empty, owners sadly alone behind the counters, staring blankly at bowls of chopped onions and cucumbers. And it reminds Louis of— absolutely nothing.

Amazing.

He emits the umpteenth frustrated noise and turns on his heels, going back to the square. He rounds the little garden, now steadily thinking of the best ways to murder Niall if he ever makes it alive from this misadventure. It’s been only two days and he couldn’t loathe this town more if he tried.

Tiredness starts to hit him, and he feels all of a sudden sleepy and slightly hungover. He checks the step-counter on his phone and sees he’s done almost two kilometres. That’s just unbelievable. He _never_ walks this much. Like, he purposely plans his journeys so he _doesn’t have_ to walk. Sometimes he even makes Liam carry him.

Given he’s not sure anymore of where he should go, he decides he might as well stop to clear his mind, gather his thoughts and plan what to do next. Maybe even take a little nap. He spots a bench on one side of the garden and he makes a dash for it, claiming it for himself although there’s nobody on the horizon to challenge him. He is literally the only person there.

He supposes alcohol makes him a bit more dramatic than usual. Oh _well_.

Once he’s sitting, back relaxing, he looks up at the tree fronds that must be home to several little animals, and feels sadness and homesickness fall over his shoulders all of a sudden, how it hadn’t done yet, what with the excitement of the travelling, the new town, the new life.

Yeah, at home this would have never happened. Niall would have never pulled, for once. It must have been the charm of the foreign student. And even if he had, Louis would have found home on his own in the blinking of an eye, or crashed at some friend’s if he was too drunk, or taken the night bus if they were too far away, the number 55, trustworthy life companion.

As he creeps his gaze up, thinking of more painful ways of murdering Niall, he spots some movement, hears some heavy breathing, a tiny dot of a light coming from the flat opposite to where he’s sitting.

So there _is_ actually somebody awake at this time at night after all.

Louis looks better and makes out a guy, smoking a cigarette on the tiniest balcony Louis has ever seen. He is lightened by the moon and a beam coming from a lamppost, and besides being utterly gorgeous, all tall and curly, he also looks a bit distressed.

He has got a frown on, looks intently at the fag before taking each drag, then stares at the puffs of smoke he releases.

Louis would label him as trying to be intently poetical and tragic, but he’s pretty sure the boy is not aware he has got a public, so he must be _real life_ poetical and tragic.

It’s so funny though. He looks like Juliet. Of course on his second day in Italy he had to bump into somebody perfectly fulfilling the folklore of the town, looking all pretty and torn on a balcony under the moonlight. Maybe it’s a prerogative of the inhabitants of Verona. Maybe there’s a decree from the Major telling people to hang out on balconies for the tourist’s delight. Maybe they also have to know the whole play by Shakespeare by heart. Imagine that.

Louis giggles to himself at the thought, and with that noise he catches the attention of the boy, who locks eyes with him as he puffs out a longer drag of smoke that curls in the air like an arabesque. He looks very hot like that.

Louis feels his heart starting to beat faster, a bit fidgety under the boy’s glinting eyes, feeling a bit too flustered because of the drinks he’s had, at the same time wishing he was drunker to gather the courage to say something to him.

It’s news. Louis never lacks the nerve, especially with boys, usually just goes up to them and takes whatever he wants. Not with this one.

It’s in the position, he thinks. The boy is looking down to stare at him, and Louis feels checked out, vulnerable, has to look up and tilt his head to reciprocate, feels a bit defenceless, cheeks reddening. _Blushing._

The boy plasters a huge smirk over his lips, bending down as to look closer, and that makes it even worse, a strand of hair falling over his face, that he instantly puts back in place with delicate fingers.

He could run away from this discomfort. But the boy entrances him, entices him so fucking much, as he’s curved over the railing, shirt completely unbuttoned over a defined chest, black jeans painted over his legs, cigarette dangling from one corner of a slightly tilted up mouth and eyes curious that Louis feels roam all over him as if they were undressing him.

He can’t pass the opportunity. That’s some instant connection there, some fucking movies material, and he’s at least 75% sure it’s not just a suggestion. 

He doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing when he jumps on his feet, crossing the empty street and coming under the balcony, never leaving the boy’s eyes, that follow him mesmerised.

“Ciao,” he tells him, because that is easy.

The boy looks startled for a moment, before pursing his mouth in an amused smile and flicking the ashes of the cigarette in one pot of the many that adorn his balcony. He turns then his whole attention to Louis, making him squirm a bit.

“Ciao,” he echoes Louis’ approach openly, smirking, only that puts Louis in trouble now, because his Italian at this point is not remotely advanced enough to make actual conversation. Like, he could always ask him the price of something, but maybe that wouldn’t be that great of a line.

He looks to the ground, searching for help, maybe, though he doesn’t exactly know in what form, and then back at the boy, frowning. He looks really nice among all the flowers. It would be such a shame not being able to talk to him. Louis would really love to tell him he’s very pretty, because he thinks this boy deserves to hear that all day, all the days.

Then, as he tries to remember the correct translation for pretty, hoping he won’t come out with some rude word instead, he has an illumination. Yes. Brilliant. This is what will make the boy swoon to his feet. He will rave verses from Romeo and Juliet to him. After all this town is nothing more than one giant fucking cliché and Louis should probably start accepting and embracing it.

Honestly, if sober Louis is a genie, drunk Louis could rule the world.

He takes one more step further, confidently, widens his arms as the guy perks up questioningly, staring down at him with interest. This is his moment. The world is his stage and all that jazz.

“Oh he doth teach the torches to burn bright!” He shouts, following up with a smirk. Then he frowns. “Well, the lampposts, actually. But whatever,” he shakes his head quite annoyed at himself, hoping the inaccurate figure of speech didn’t ruin his performance. The _moon,_ Louis. Now, that would have been more poetic. Too late. Shit. _“_ It seems he hangs upon the cheek of night, like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear! Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!”

Louis smiles brightly, very proud about his interpretation. He looks sheepishly at the boy through his lashes to check his reaction and sees he has now put on a quite dumbfounded expression. Louis frowns again, starting to second guess his methods. He really hopes it’s good dumbfounded though.

As in, holy shit, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me let’s get married in glamourous fashion but without actually ending up like Romeo and Juliet.

Sadly, it looks more like an holy shit who is this creep and where is my phone, I need to call the police ASAP.

Louis sighs. Life is difficult sometimes.

**H.**

 

It’s not the first time Harry struggles to fall asleep since he moved here.

It’s been almost two months, and there hasn’t been a night where he hasn’t felt uneasy in his new bed, twisting and turning as the sheets get tangled with his limbs, sweating and waking up several times.

Sometimes it’s because the walls of his little flat on the first floor of this pretty two-storey building in Verona are so thin that he can distinctly hear every single noise coming from outside, from cars passing to groups of people drunkenly chatting and laughing.

Sometimes it’s because he’s still not so used to life here. He has lived in London for three years before moving to Italy, after all.

_Three years._

Three years of waking up early to commute to uni, of rush hours, of tube journeys, of quickly crossing the street before the traffic light turns red, of take-away food, of Oxford Street on Saturdays, of queues at the supermarket, of traffic jams, of walking in the streets, always with a destination in mind, quickly, to be on time. Three years of coming home so tired he only wanted to die in bed, of doing so and falling asleep immediately, drifting off to a comatose slumber until the alarm went annoyingly off the morning next.

Life here is so much different and— _relaxed._ He can wake up at eight in the morning and still be on time for classes at university, where he can easily walk to after stopping at a café fifty metres from his flat, sitting at a table in the shadow, outside, getting a cappuccino and a croissant for the same price of a cheap to-go cup of tea in London.

He can go out for a jog and lose himself in the nice streets of the town, as old ladies and other joggers smile and wave at him, even though they don’t know him, like there’s an unspoken rule in the air to always be kind to everyone.

He can go grocery shopping and find a little cute weekly market, where healthiness and organic products are normality, and not an overpriced something to promote and push in your face because it’s special. Of vendors trying to make you taste some of their stuff, chatting you up, of women stopping to talk when they casually meet in the street and greeting each other with two kisses on the cheeks.

Sometimes it’s because, admittedly, he misses home. Not even London, just home, _home_. His family. Tea with them in the afternoon. The thin rain. Their cat. Their garden. And that feeling usually wilts him at night, when it’s silent and eerie and warm, so different from what he’s used to.

He came here all on his own, to get a degree in this quite renowned art school, because Italy had always been the priority. He wanted to live here for a bit, to breathe art and culture every day, to walk these pretty streets, know all the beautiful buildings by heart, without never ceasing to be amazed by how lucky he was to experience all of it.

Yeah, he _is_ grateful. It took some strength to do this all alone though. And sometimes he just feels…lonely. Nostalgic.

Sometimes he just stays in bed, tries to get back to sleep, that in the morning all will be okay again, he will get out and remember how great what he gets to do is.

Sometimes he gets restless, quite annoyed at himself, so he has to get up, wander in the little one-bedroom flat, drink some water, breathe some fresh air. Like tonight.

It’s past midnight, and he’s smoking a cigarette, leaning against the iron railing of his minuscule balcony, literally a stripe, three tiles long and a balustrade, because that’s the aesthetic of the town.

He was quite happy the flat had a balcony at all. He has taken the time to decorate it with small pot plants and herbs, made it all pretty and colourful, so that it matched the pastel plaster of the building. It overlooks a little garden, more like a flower bed with a few trees and even less benches, some lamppost scattered here and there and a generally pretty atmosphere, especially at night. It’s like a square with a monument-fountain in the middle, like there are tons in Italian cities, that in whatever other country would be _something_ while here are just normality, you encounter dozens of them if you walk for one hour in town, and yet Harry feels so special when he gets out on his balcony, _his_ balcony, usually at night, when the roman cobbles that pave the streets are lightened by a soft dim light and there is a car in the far distance, the crickets, the fireflies, and he can feel the end of summer dashing over him.

Some nights it can be a bit crowded, maybe with drunk guys or gaggles of girls laughing loudly. It’s something about Italy that he likes, that people prefer staying out rather than going to clubs, just grab a drink on a table outside a pub or a cool little restaurant or bistro, or just walk the pretty streets, sit on the steps of ancient staircases or on fountains or on monuments that are everywhere, with a beer or a cocktail in hand, or an ice cream cone ,even at one at night.

Just—they actually _live_ the town, and Harry likes that.

Harry would love to do the same, would love to have somebody to hold hands and walk with at midnight in the main square, and then along the river, eating gelato and laughing breathlessly, just walking and watching as the orange lights make that somebody’s eyes sparkle.

Students get out a lot on Wednesdays and Saturdays, while on Sunday nights it’s tamer, like Harry prefers, and the garden is silent and deserted now, as he finishes rolling a cigarette and lights it up, taking a first drag that soon fills his lungs with a pleasurable sense of burnt.

Except suddenly a boy makes an appearance, disturbing Harry’s alone time.

He observes him enraptured, stumbling on the cobblestones of the street that runs below. The boy looks right and left, seemingly confused, as he drags himself on the ancient paving, and then disappears.

Harry blinks, and when he re-opens his eyes there’s still nobody there, the gardens empty as they should be. Right when he’s decided the boy was a trick of his sleepy and lonely mind, here he comes, reappearing from behind the corner of the street, eyes bright as they reflect the dim lights, all dressed in black, the t-shirt clinging to his body like second skin. He’s also pouting and he looks kind of adorable.

He peeks at the corner to look in the street that leads to the cathedral, then turns around and sighs, seemingly unable to find peace as he goes to sit on the bench, the one right in front of Harry’s balcony. The boy pulls out his phone, and after fumbling with the screen for some moments he puts it back in the pocket of his trousers.

“ _Asshole,_ ” Harry thinks he feebly hears him whisper to his lap. But it can’t be, it surely can’t be. They’re in Italy, and it’s all just a trick of his homesick brain, he’s chalking it all up. He’s still not totally convinced this isn’t just a fragment of his imagination, this beautiful boy his mind had to conjure up to make him feel even more miserable when he’s gone.

But the beautiful boy must have finally spotted him, because he’s now looking up, and Harry has a clear view of his face, not hidden anymore by strands of hair. He really is gorgeous, blue eyes visible even from up there and soft lashes, and he’s also probably freezing, what with the short sleeves and the fact that he’s all sweaty. Harry wants to go down and bring him a blanket and wrap him in it and lull him to sleep after maybe giving him some painkillers and a kiss on the forehead.

They look at each other for what seems like eternity, and Harry thinks he would do that, it wouldn’t be a bad view to be forced to look at for the rest of his life, at all.

The boy smiles dreamily, then closes his eyes sagging against the back of the bench, and he’s truly a vision, still not making it convincing he’s real.

Harry keeps smoking, but his drags have become more slow and calculated, excruciating, taken as he is by looking at this dishevelled boy, hair a mess plastered on his forehead, t-shirt wet from all the dancing and a mixture of spilt cocktails, likely.

He’s about to ask him if he needs help, as lame as it would be, when pretty boy stands up, and before Harry can worry about him going away, he giggles to himself, comes down to his window and greets him.

Harry answers politely, heart beating faster.

He is rehearsing in his mind all the sentences he knows in Italian, hoping to make a good impression and at the same time that at least the boy speaks a little bit of English, when said boy starts loudly quoting Romeo and Juliet at him, widening both his arms and his bright smile.

And said boy—he’s British. Like, as absurd as it sounds, right when Harry was thinking of home and everything—yeah, the boy is utterly, unmistakably and inexorably British, and his strong accent warms Harry up like a duvet, and this must be the most surreal thing that has ever happened to him.

 

**L.**

It’s not like Louis expected a round of applause or anything for his outstanding performance, but—yeah, he feels rather stupid now, standing there under a stranger boy’s balcony after waxing poetry verses at him and being met with an overly freaked out stare.

He doesn’t give out creepy vibes, does he? He thought he was being clever, but maybe this boy didn’t catch his reference? Why isn’t he saying anything? He thought everybody in this fucking town knew Romeo and Juliet.

Oh, maybe the boy doesn’t speak English. Maybe he can try with a more renowned verse, see if he gets it. Wasn’t the good old William English? They surely must study his works in the original language at some point!

He tries again.

“Did my heart ever love anyone before this moment? My eyes were…” he frowns, as he doesn’t remember the other part of the verse. Truly great. What was that? My eyes were… nothing. Empty. Like when he did geography exams at school. Well, this is embarrassing now.

As he’s about to give up, a voice raspy yet clear, husky in the chilly air, startles him and sends a shiver right down his spine.

“My eyes were liars, then, because I never saw true beauty before tonight,” completes the boy, smiling softly, eyes squinting.

Louis might be in love.

When he whips his eyes up at him, the boy’s cheeks turn adorably red, and he averts his stare, flicking the butt of his cigarette in the same poor plant and clearing his throat pointedly.

And this— he wasn’t expecting this. He doesn’t just have good English, he—

“You are _English_ ,” deadpans Louis. From around Manchester, if he has to make an educated guess.

“So are you,” smirks the boy, crossing his wrists on the railing and assuming a rather flirty pose. The wind is sweeping his hair, his expression still cheerful and curious, his legs are shapely and endless.

“This is so funny,” says Louis loudly, unable to hold back a chuckle. He can’t believe he managed to bump into a Brit on his first night out. He also can’t believe he had to go to Verona to find the fittest boy he has ever seen _and_ he’s a _Brit._

But then he suddenly remembers about his Shakespearean approach and has to give him a disgruntled look. “Hey! You stole my verse though! You’re not Romeo _, I_ am,” he has to scold him. “Although you don’t really look like Juliet. Too tall and broad,” he gestures at the boy pointedly.

The boy laughs airily in lieu of an answer. “Well, you don’t really look like a Romeo either. Too scruffy.”

Louis looks at his giant smile and doesn’t know if he’s supposed to get offended at that. Maybe not. Things confuse him a lot in this moment. He widens his arms and shrugs.

“I’m Louis actually,” he informs. The boy nods, biting his lips mischievously as to hold back a cackle. He likes that he always laughs. But he doesn’t know why is that. Maybe he’s just happy.

“Oh Louis, Louis! Wherefore art thou Louis? Deny thy father and refuse thy name…” the boy recites, bringing a hand to his heart and batting his eyelids at Louis.

“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” Interrupts Louis dramatically, turning up his tone of voice that echoes in the street, in a rather impressive display of theatricality, if he says so.

The boy seems torn between laughing and telling him to stop and be quiet, which would be a shame, since Louis’ truly having a lot of fun, Niall and the search for his room by now forgotten. Who would have thought this night would have taken this rather pleasant turn?

“You shall come up maybe?” Offers the boy, tentative and hushed. He keeps biting his lips. “Making normal conversation from a balcony is kind of hard.”

Louis smiles, quite flattered. He knew his charm wasn’t rusty, after all. See, he can still pull, even from under a balcony. This is amazing. _He_ feels amazing.

“You need to tell the part about the rose though! That is the best part, how a rose doesn’t lose its smell if you stop calling it a rose and all that shit!”

Like, that’s the most important bit, everyone knows it. They can’t end their impromptu rendition without that part, it would be like doing the Hamlet without ‘to be or not to be’, it’s just not how things go.

For a moment he’s stunned at himself for the impressing Shakespeare culture he’s showing off today. He should put that on his resume.

The boy stares at him cuttingly for what feel like about two years. “So you don’t want to come up?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and if Louis thought the boy’s initial sheepish and submissive stance meant he was in charge of the situation, he is proved wrong. He can be biting then, and sarcastic, and teasing. All qualities Louis rather enjoys. Yes, he does want to come up, of course, what a stupid question. “You might want to, you know, before the police arrests you for public nuisance,” continues then the boy with a grin, looking left and right, despite the street being deserted.

“Do you think they would give me an extenuating circumstance because I was yelling Romeo and Juliet though?” Louis asks, genuinely interested. He truly needs to find out how rooted is the city’s attachment to this play. Maybe he can ask the boy if he wants to help investigating.

“I think they would give you five years more, if anything. For being clearly delusional,” the boy snorts. “So, are you coming or do you want to keep up with the conversation on Italian criminal laws?”

Louis rolls his eyes, putting his hands on his hips in what he hopes is a quite rugged stance. “Fine. I’ll come if that’ll make you happy,” caves Louis, feigning reluctance. The boy grins. “Should I climb up there? Does Romeo climb the balcony, I’m not sure,” he pulls his eyebrows together, uncertain.

In all and utter honesty, he has never read the script. He straight out pulled the verses from a play they did in primary school, when he played Tybalt but learnt everyone’s part because so he would be able to be a replacement for whoever was ill on the day of the show. What a thoughtful and proactive pupil he was. Imagine if he had kept that up, he would have aced all his classes in uni.

Anyway, back to the play. He doesn’t remember if Romeo actually climbs the balcony, and this is genuinely confusing him a lot. He thinks not, but then again, they surely wouldn’t have let ten years old climb a papier-mâché building at the risk to splatter themselves to the ground, would they.

What would have they told the parents then.

“Yes.” The boy’s slow and gravely voice comes to his aid, giving an answer to his doubts. “With love’s light wings,” he says seriously, but with a rather proud expression. Louis smirks. He’s witty. He likes that.

“I don’t know if I have those,” he tells him.

The boy bursts out into an entertained laugh, but then seems to turn pensive, tapping one finger on his cheek. “Mhh. Well you could always use the stairs.”

He disappears behind the window door, inside the flat, after making a vague gesture with his hand. Louis reaches amazed for the door, that takes about ten seconds to click open.

He gets inside cautiously, stumbling a bit on the few steps that lead to the first floor. The boy is there, waiting at the entrance and leaning against the door jamb. When he sees Louis he moves forward, and helps him on the last two steps, eagerly tugging him inside by gripping his hand.

“Hi,” says Louis breathlessly as he collides with the boy’s chest and the door slams shut behind them. He’s even more beautiful from up close, all firm and warm around Louis, and sue him, but he can’t avoid staring into his eyes as he takes a bit more time than necessary to steady himself on his feet.

“Hi,” the boy answers, and he’s smiling confidently, but at least he looks affected, too, keeping one hand around Louis’ stuck between their bodies and the other on his hip, fingers pressing in his flesh.

Good.

“So…” Louis glances over the boy’s shoulder to look around in the room, messy and crammed with the most disparate objects he will need time to dissect, later, if he has the time. “If you’re not Juliet who are you?”

The boy must realise how close they are, since Louis is basically speaking in his ear, and releases Louis’ hand, putting some distance between them and hastily doing up two buttons of his shirt. Not like anybody asked. But hey, Louis is all for people feeling comfortable, so he won’t complain.

“I’m Harry,” says the boy, flushing and looking at his bare feet.

Louis takes him in, trying to figure him out.

He can’t. He has such a presence that doesn’t give away anything, that probably wants you to take a shovel and dig for yourself to find the stuff that you want. He gets all in Harry’s space then, annoyed at the lack of touching, forcing him to look in his eyes. He gets particularly cuddly when he’s buzzing from remnants of alcohol in his body.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Harry is the sun!”

Harry laughs openly, biting at his lips. He takes Louis’ hands in his, thumbs rubbing at his knuckles, and they fit. It’s unreal, that they fit. But again, nothing has felt normal since he has spotted him on his balcony, yet nothing feels forced, out of place. Every action flows like it was always supposed to happen.

Louis has never felt like this with any other person.

“I thought you looked more like the sun,” admits Harry, as he takes a step back, still clutching Louis’ hands.

Louis studies him better, because he can. The pallor of his skin makes every little mole stand out like in an imaginary constellation, his cheekbones are cutting, but his expression gentle and innocent, and that’s a stark contrast that makes him all the more interesting.

He’s pretty. Extremely pretty.

“You’re pretty.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiles brightly. “Right back at you,” he fixes a lock of hair over Louis’ forehead. He squints at him a lot, and Louis dares hoping it’s in fondness.

“Can I kiss you?” Louis looks hopefully at him, eyelids fluttering. He really is dying to kiss him. He thinks Harry wants that as well, he’s pretty good at reading body language. And maybe when they will have shared the best kiss of their life they will understand they are soul mates, just like Romeo and Juliet.

“You’re drunk.”

Harry’s dry rejection dejects Louis a bit. “Not really,” he retorts. Tipsy, if anything. He still managed to recite Romeo and Juliet, didn’t he? That must be enough evidence to prove that he is absolutely not drunk. When he’s _really_ drunk he can at most quote the Simpsons. If that. “Can I kiss you?” He concentrates harder, bringing his fingers to brush delicately Harry’s cheekbones. Harry closes his eyes. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

This. This is what will do. He knows. This is when he gets a good snog out of the situation.

Harry abruptly forces his eyes open, the green running over Louis mercilessly. He arches an eyebrow, seems fighting within himself as he tugs Louis closer, puts a hand on his cheek in return, stares intently at his lips. “I— maybe when you’re sober. I don’t want to— yeah, when you’re sober.”

Louis clouds, turns upset. “Ok.” There’s silence, as Harry strokes the side of his face too tenderly for a boy he has just met. “He is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, to merit bliss by making me despair,” he recites dramatically, lacing his arms around Harry’s neck and swooning after him.

“You think you’re so clever,” whispers Harry, so close, so close, catching him and gripping him tighter, arms slung over the small of his back, hands almost splayed on his bum. “Romeo was full of shit. And so are you.”

“I am the cleverest,” retorts Louis, steadying himself and aligning his nose with Harry’s, breaths mingling.

“That sounds like the name of a mountain.”

“Your jokes are awful,” informs him Louis, because he thinks the boy ought to know. “I really want to kiss you.”

“Such comfort as do lusty young men feel…” Harry whispers, so fucking pleased at his snug response. However, he still brushes one thumb over Louis’ dry lips, and for him it’s quite the task to restrain himself from just closing the distance. He’s about to do so, instead for whatever reason Harry’s reply catches with him and he does the exact opposite, taking one abrupt step back.

“Ew, don’t quote the Capulets!” As soon as it’s out, he mentally curses himself. Why did he have to say that?

“Wasn’t Juliet actually a Capulet?” frowns Harry, a bit startled.

But the moment is broken, irremediably, and it’s all Louis’ fault, because he’s almost sure Harry was just about to kiss him despite everything. He clears his throat as Harry detaches himself for a second time, hastily, smoothing over his shirt and looking awkwardly at the floor.

No, no, no, come _back_. Louis wants him back. Why is he so stupid? Damn.

It’s like there was an aura of fairytale surrounding them, since the moment Louis rested his eyes on Harry on the balcony, an atmosphere of things already written somewhere, only waiting to develop, an air of destiny and magic that is not there anymore, as they stand one metre in between them, respectively scratching their own flushed necks.

Just two normal boys, late at night, in an unlikely and now embarrassing situation.

“I—“ says Louis, at the same time Harry opens his mouth.

“Do you—“

He cringes. “You go.”

“Did you want some water? A painkiller? I—I’ll give you water,” says Harry resolutely. He seems somewhat thankful to be able to turn his back to Louis, even for one brief moment.

He heads to the kitchen area and Louis follows him gingerly. It’s a tiny little kitchen, like everything in this flat, the surfaces neat and clean, a pile of plates tidily stacked on a side. Harry grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water from a bottle, breathing out, as if this domestic and routinely action could put some order in his mind, that must be a mess if it’s even half as dizzy as Louis’, from warmth and want and touches and that fucking _sparkle,_ that ignited wick.

“I found out almost nobody in Italy drinks tap water. I’ve already spent a fortune on water bottles,” explains Harry conversationally, offering Louis’ the glass and leaning against the kitchen top, one hand behind his back. It should be such a old man pose, yet the boy makes it look extremely sexy, one strip of skin peeking out where the shirt lifts up, head slightly tilted to the side.

Louis clears his throat once again, one time too much, and frowns. “Are you sure this isn’t poisoned?” He tries to be funny to hide his flustered state, but the strident voice definitely betrays him.

“I’m supposed to be Juliet. Not Friar Laurence,” argues Harry.

Yeah, okay, he has a point. And anyway friars are usually a bit fuller and bald while Harry has lush curls and just a bit of love handles, for what Louis could ascertain while all the touching was going on. It was hot. He should also probably stop comparing Harry to a friar. But hey, he started it, didn’t he? 

“So, why are you here?” Harry asks.

“Right here? In the kitchen of your flat? Mainly because Niall is a dick.” Louis takes a sip of water, and that makes him feel extremely better. The disgusting taste in his mouth is not so stinging anymore, for once, and his body temperature seems to be dropping to normal values. He purses his lips, and turns to head to the sitting room, seemingly the biggest area of the flat, which is something, because the area itself is not that big and full of stuff to the brim. He discards his battered vans, throwing them carelessly in two different directions and walks on the parqueted floor, padding in his blue socks like a duckling, brushing the cushions of the sofa, glancing for a second outside from the open balcony door and analysing the pictures Harry has hung on the walls. They’re all pictures of other people, many of them owning some of Harry’s most peculiar traits.

“Err—right,” Louis hears the boy say from behind him. He must have followed him, quietly, and as he turns to look back at him he finds a questioning light in his eyes.

Louis ignores it and brushes past him to keep wandering in the room, touching objects nosily, smelling the flowers that fill vases scattered on every available surface, it seems, taking a piece of paper from the messy desk and reading a few lines, of what look like notes from university lectures on history of the art.

Harry’s handwriting is very pretentious, all swanky and curly. He bets he writes with a fountain pen. He looks like one who might.

As Louis is focusing intently on the sheet, he hears the other boy clearing his throat expectantly.

And oh, right. He supposes he owes him some explanations since he’s in his flat and rummaging through his stuff, doesn’t he?

Louis chins up, meeting his gaze.

“We were in this shitty club, me and Niall. He’s my best friend, see, and he went home with a girl and I couldn’t get home myself then, you know,” he makes an explicative gesture with his hands, putting the notes down and taking instead an owl carved in the stone that was weighing down some other paper sheets. He observes it carefully, admiring the details. It’s quite cute. He wonders if Harry carved it. He also looks like someone who would enjoy sculpture and such. “Because he didn’t come with me.”

There’s a breeze, coming from the open window door, making the curtains flow and Louis shiver a bit. He’d really like to snuggle up on the couch with a blanket and sleep a bit now, possibly with Harry hugging him. Possibly.

“You mean you got lost,” sums up Harry, coming close to Louis and sitting on the desk, taking the owl and putting it back on the shelf behind him, busying Louis’ hands with his own, intertwining their fingers only to drop the hold  after a brief moment. Louis finds space between his legs, feeling Harry’s knees against his hipbones. He ignores the proximity, the small space that separates them, the whole bag of implications this position holds and just starts playing with the ruffles of Harry’s shirt instead.

Oh, yes, because his shirt has ruffles.

“I mean I couldn’t _get home_ ,” corrects Louis obnoxiously. He didn’t get lost. To get lost he would have actually needed to know where the place was. He simply didn’t have a clue, but Harry doesn’t need to know the details.

“It’s pretty here,” he points out noncommittally, trying to distract Harry from the subject at hand and taking another look around the room. He lifts his head, finding the other boy already staring down at him. “You are pretty.”

“You already said that,” objects Harry, poking at his stomach. Then he leans back a bit, turns to caress the flowers in the vase on the desk. He takes a pink one, Louis doesn’t know the name of it, but it has a long stem and large petals, and starts playing with it.

Louis shrugs after squirming slightly from Harry’s touch. It’s just the truth. And he promised to himself he would tell him always if he had the chance.

“How long have you been living here?”

Harry smells really nice, Louis thinks, now that he has been so close to him for enough time to notice. He has had the time to notice also a lot of other things, like the fact that his biceps were very defined when he absolutely and a hundred percent casually brushed them while playing with his shirt, that he scrunches his nose a lot for no apparent reason, that he radiates an uncommon warmth and that will be Louis’ excuse if he asks him why he’s still in his lap and why he keeps going back there. He’s cold, okay?

“Two months,” says Harry, and starts to play with Louis’ fringe, probably boldened by the fact that Louis has taken the freedom to ban the notion of personal space from their shared vocabulary. “Since the beginning of August.”

“You study art.”

“Yeah, fine arts at the academy here. It’s pretty good. I studied in London for three years before,” Harry cards his long fingers in Louis’ hair, brushing it completely off his forehead, making him tilt his head back.

Louis would like to say he doesn’t purr, but sadly that would be a lie. He’ll fight very hard to admit it, if somebody ever asks, though.

He closes his eyes, and when he reopens them Harry’s hand is gone. He’s pulling the flower off his stem and he puts it in Louis’ hair, behind his ear, with no explanation of sorts.

“I study in London,” says Louis quietly. Harry’s hands have now found their way on his waist, and the touch is making a shiver unrelated to the temperature climb up his spine. He wants more though. He could have so much more than hands running over his sides while he’s standing up against a desk table.

Louis sighs, and makes his way over the couch on his own initiative. He plops down unceremoniously and pats the seat beside his.

This couch is quite comfy. Actually, more than a couch it’s like a giant love chair, like a family format armchair, all wide and large.

Maybe Louis will start showing symptoms of withdrawal for this couch after tonight and he will have to come here regularly over the next months to enjoy its comfiness. Such a shame. He’s going to tell Harry later.

The boy flashes Louis an amused glance before joining him on the seat. Louis draws his legs up, resting them against Harry’s thighs, leaning against his chest and even dropping his head to Harry’s shoulder. He could fall asleep like that.

“Is this ok?” He asks, just to make sure. Harry just nods, and Louis can only tell from the movement around his head. But he also puts his hand back in Louis’ hair, and that is a good sign, too. He’s a really good head-masseuse. Louis should tell him that, so maybe he gets so pleased he never stops scratching his scalp.

“So when I asked you why you were here, I actually meant in Verona,” says Harry after some moments, when Louis was actually starting to drift off. “Is this a holiday?”

It seems like Harry thought carefully about the question, like he is making some calculations. His tone of voice is casual, mellow, but there’s an underline of something, that Louis will identify as some sort of preemptive disappointment and resignation, for lack of better words. Interesting.

He straightens up a bit, crossing his legs on the couch and looking at Harry.

“I’m actually here on an exchange year,” he tells him, seeing the pair of green eyes widen comically.

“Really?” Harry tries to hide his delight but fails miserably, and there’s a huge grin taking over his lips. “So you can get accustomed with- uh- with the city now.”

Louis rolls his eyes, going back to rest on Harry’s chest, that raises and falls with his every deep breath. “Right. So, do you like it?”

“Verona? Yeah. Quite a lot.”

“I think it’s quite shitty.”

Louis turns to be face-to-face and finds himself caging Harry with a hand on each armrest. He climbs over his lap, knees beside his thighs. Harry takes a choked inhale, staring up at Louis.

“Haven’t you seen the— err, the arena? Piazza Bra. The river is also amazing,” Harry tells him. His hands go to Louis’ waist like an automatic reflex. “So romantic. The palace is beautiful.”

Oh. yeah, Louis guesses they could be. He sort of didn’t really see them? Also, Piazza Bra? What kind of name is that?

“I didn’t. I went to the supermarket. And to the club?” He doesn’t really know why it comes out as a question. Maybe it’s for the way Harry is looking at him, a bit disapprovingly, a bit dazed.

“You should go,” says the other boy, pressing his fingers into Louis’ hipbone. Louis flattens himself on Harry, bringing his hands to his face, thumbing at his cheekbones. His face is really soft, and smooth.

“Maybe you can show me,” he whispers, tracing the outline of his profile, fingertips brushing his eyebrows.

“Maybe,” says Harry, hands dropping to the side of Louis’ thighs.

“I want you to show me.”

Harry looks kind of taken aback at Louis’ words, stunned, panting against his neck but stilling all his other movements. Louis detects a hint of panic there.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” he reassures him, patting his cheek affably. He is truly too considerate for this mean and debauched world.

“W- What?”

“I know that you would be upset if I kissed you because you don’t want to kiss me, and I don’t want you to be upset,” explains Louis.

“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I really do, but...”

“I know.”

“It’s that- not like this you know, when you’re tired and hungover and vulnerable. I wouldn’t feel— ” the boy is scrambling for words, even trying to gesture widely to convey his message more clearly to Louis, and it’s adorable. Louis stops him, taking his wrists in his hands.

“Harry. It’s ok. I get it.”

Harry stops moving, looking a bit confused. Then he nods softly and wraps an arm around Louis, bringing him to his chest, ear directly on his heartbeat. It’s very comforting, like a metronome making the time right for their harmony.

With his other arm, he pulls a blanket from nowhere. It’s fleeced and warm, white and red, and smells like nice things. Right when Harry has managed to wrap them in a comforting bundle, sighing against Louis’ skin in content and pleasure, Louis’ stomach has to go and ruin the perfect and domestic atmosphere they had going on by emitting an incredibly loud grumble.

 _Charming_.

“I’m hungry,” announces Louis, as if it wasn’t already clear enough, hiding his flushed cheeks between Harry’s neck and the throw.

Harry chuckles, ruffling his hair. “You suddenly are or you have just been hiding it the whole time?”

“I think I was all along, but I just remembered,” reveals Louis, squirming as Harry puts a hand over his tummy and starts massaging it.

He laughs again. “I’ll make you avocado on toast.”

Louis lifts his head slightly, looking displeased at Harry. Is this boy for _real?_ He thought people like that were just a myth, like, characters to joke about in an unfunny sit-com or at most Buzzfeed interns.

“You serious? I can’t believe you just said that. Oh my god you just ruined _everything,”_ Louis lifts up wholly, resting with his hands at Harry’s sides, for once towering over him and scorning seriously.

Harry is looking at him at a loss, pupils dilated. “I... _What_?”

Louis snorts. “Do you think it’s hot? No! You just said that because you are trying too hard. _Avocado on toast_. Oh my god.”

“Hey what’s wrong with that? I love avocados!”

“I can’t believe this is a real sentence that left your mouth. This is the least sexy thing you could have said, you realise that? You just lost all your hotness points.”

Harry’s eyes widen even more, and his eyebrows almost reach his hairline.

“Did I really?”

The boy suddenly extricates his arms from under Louis’, arches slightly and subtly lifts up his own shirt by sliding his hands over his torso, slowly. Then the fucker inverts their position, caging Louis below him and pressing him to the seat, hands encircling Louis’ wrists.

 _Fuck._ This fucking tosser.

But Louis is strong, he’s not letting this boy lure him into submission. He tilts his head to the side, pointedly not looking at Harry and continuing unperturbed with his charade.

“Do even avocados exist in Italy? Oh my god I thought I had finally escaped a clean eating obsessed country and yet,” he tilts his head even more, so he’s far away from Harry, this nasty, nasty person that doesn’t affect him in the slightest, with his firm body pinning him to the cushions of the love chair and his legs pressed to his hips and—

“Of course they do! They’re delicious! I’ll make you that and scrambled eggs. Eggs are always good. There’s carbs and there’s proteins and fibre,” and with that, managing to make a chat about avocados and toasts hot, with that unnervingly low and husky bedroom voice, Harry heads to the kitchen, puts two slices of bread in the toaster first thing and then actually starts to mash an avocado.

Unbelievable.

Louis follows his movements, hears clattering of cutlery against plates and Harry humming some obscure song. He is tempted to join him, so maybe he gets to look at more than just his broad back, but then he desists, worried Harry is going to ask for some help.

He looks around in search of something that will make him seem busy, like his phone for example, but he finds the remote of the tv in between the cushion and the armrest instead.

He has actually never watched TV since he arrived, now that he thinks of it. He wonders what kind of programmes they air here. Is everything about food? Are they obsessed with the Bake off? Do they have Jeremy Kyle? He turns it on.

Apparently, though, Italian television at night is full of parliamentary debates, weird talk shows with just one host and their soothing voice, and documentaries. Amazing.

“Do you actually understand what they’re saying?” Interrupts Harry’s voice. His owner is glancing at the television, where some kind of archive films from war are being showed and commented. He goes over to Louis bearing a plate with two toasted slices of bread, one with avocado and one with scrambled eggs. He’s biting himself at an avocado toast, and Louis has to admit the plate looks quite incredible for being just toast. Like one of those shit London brunch dishes that they charge you a tenner for in whatever place in Notting Hill.

“No. Translate for me,” demands Louis, not letting show how impressed he is as he takes the plate greedily. “For your information, I’ll eat just because I’m starving.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry has finished his toast in a quite fast fashion and is now smirking at how Louis is attacking his. “And I don’t think I can make a simultaneous translation Lou, my Italian is not that great.”

Louis doesn’t listen to him, though, more busy moaning around a mouthful of toast and trying to wrap his head around the fact that avocado _can_ actually be this good.

“I hate you. This shit is actually delicious. Why is this delicious?”

Harry smiles, evidently pleased. “The secret is all in the seasoning. I added squeezed lemon and some pepper and chopped baby tomatoes.”

“I have no idea of what you’re talking about but you seem very professional. It’s suddenly sexy, you know,” admits Louis, stuffing his mouth with more hungry bites of toast.

Harry bites his lips, grinning sheepishly. “Give me some time and I will make you eat broccoli,” he tells him.

Which. Why is he thinking in the long distance? Louis is just this boy he has gathered from the street because he can’t find his home (and because he is very beautiful of course). He doesn’t want that little flicker of hope in his stomach. No, his words don’t mean anything, _anything._

This is just a night, a bit insane, with a promise of a kiss. That is all there is.

Harry seems to realise too what he said, because he blushes, suddenly seeming very focused on the TV. Louis gets suddenly bothered by that, doesn’t really know why.

Maybe it’s for how Harry reacted, or maybe it’s just the whole not having his attention anymore.

He scoffs, and gets a hold of the remote, turning the TV off.

“Hey!”

“We weren’t understanding anything anyway,” justifies Louis, hiding the remote behind his back. Harry is looking at him with a disgruntled and a bit quizzical stare, but at least he’s _looking._

“We could have watched MTV?”

“I thought you only listened to indie trash,” snorts Louis.

“I do love my pop trash as well,” says Harry pointing to a shelf behind him, full of albums and vinyls of every sort.

Louis stands up, going to check it out, but his eyes are caught by a paint on a canvas positioned on an easel near the window. He hadn’t noticed it before. It’s a portrait, supposedly, only the background made, an unlikely figure there, almost blurred, a gray area, undefined, as if Harry had tried and tried again to give it a face, erased and started again, until he just gave up and made a mess of it.

“You paint,” deadpans Louis. Well, obviously he paints, he said he studies fine arts. He didn’t expect to see some of his work though.

“Yeah, I try to. I’m shit at it. I’m better at photography,” explains Harry, blushing. Oh, he’s embarrassed.

“Show me,” says Louis, only managing to embarrass him more. Not like Louis draws joy from it or anything.

“I lost inspiration, I—I was painting this, but I’m stuck.”

Louis gives him a bunch of brushes he fished from a vase on the floor, pushing Harry behind the easel and then plopping down on the love chair.

“Paint me.”

 

**H.**

 

Louis is an earthquake come into Harry’s life one night, in the most preposterous way possible. He seems he can’t stay still, wandering from side to side of the room, bouncing like a ball, so full of energy, so loquacious, so damn straightforward.

It surprises Harry that he manages to stay in position as he paints him, content to just stare at Harry. It makes him blush. That, added the fact that he’s painting with a public, which he never does. Well, his public it’s also his model, but Louis seems like he’s expecting a lot, and he makes him squirm with his looks and Harry just wants to impress him so bad, so it’s all the more unnerving and trying and damn, why can’t Harry stop _blushing_.

“I hope you’re not painting my flaws,” says Louis at some point, dangling his legs draped over the armrest of the love chair and touching his tummy. Harry is very jealous of his hands. It should be him the one touching.

“You don’t have any,” he tells him, blushing even more. You could probably fry eggs on his cheeks for how hot they are. But it’s true, to him at least. He has a beautiful face.

He really wants Louis. He realises it all the more as he tries to paint his perfect traits. He doesn’t know what got into him, what made him reject him, being too considerate, unreasonably caring, when Louis offered himself in the sweetest most innocent way.

It’s maybe because Harry knows he tends to want and need more. A kiss or a one night stand always leave him with that foul sense of incompleteness that feels like it takes each time something from him. Like giving something to a person and never getting it back. And he doesn’t really want Louis to become that. It’s because Louis is not a blank canvas, has never been, not even when they were just boys looking at each other. It’s because Louis tells something about more, tells _all the things,_ and without words, with just a look or a brief touch.

Louis smirks. “ _Flattering._ ”

“It’s the truth,” Harry echoes Louis’ previous response. “But you really are quite hard to paint.”

“That’s why my sisters always made a shit job of making portraits of myself then? I should probably apologise to them since it’s apparently my perfect face the one to blame,” smirks Louis, gloating over the compliment.

“You’ve got sisters?” Harry adds some lines to the paint, keeping it simple and geometrical.

“Yeah, too many.”

“I have just one. She lives in London as well,” he explains. He has decided to leave the gray background, that now looks like a halo around Louis’ profile. He squeezes some purple onto the palette, mixing it carefully. He thinks purple suits Louis, because it’s a colour from dreams.

“Do you miss her?” asks Louis curiously.

“Sometimes. We skype a lot though.”

“Yeah,” Louis seems flat, a bit dull in his reply. Harry studies him, this time not with the painting firm in mind to use as an excuse.

“Do you miss home already?”

“Kind of. It’s just...when you’re so far, and somewhat lonely, maybe you start to realise how much you care. Start to love people even more.”

Harry nods at that, because he can sympathise, but also frowns, considering Louis’ words with care. Does that mean…? But he wouldn’t have asked to kiss him, would he?

Harry tries to be sly. “Is Rosaline that thou didst love so dear, so soon forsaken?” He says, looking decidedly at the palette and sensing his cheeks turning carmine for how stupid and righteous and nosy that sounded. They are nothing. He surely doesn’t have the right to ask him that.

“I’m gay Harry,” deadpans Louis, frowning.

Harry laughs, relieved by the fact Louis didn’t get angry. “Yeah, I figured.”

When he finds the courage to lifts his gaze up, he finds Louis studying him intently.

“Harold. Is this your roundabout way of asking me if I have a boyfriend? Because I don’t have any.”

Harry can’t avoid smiling at that. Not like it matters, but— oh fuck, he’s fucking relieved, who is he kidding. “ _Good._ ”

“Just this boy I met…” Harry’s face falls. “All pretty on a balcony.” Oh. Harry blushes. _Again._ Will he ever be able to show Louis his natural complexion? Apparently he can only turn red around him.

He busies himself with the painting, adding some lines and defining Louis’ profile. When he’s happy enough with what he’s done he puts the brush down.

“Do you want to see? It’s not finished, but I guess it’s all I can manage for tonight,” he asks Louis, stuttering a bit.

Louis claps his hands, jumping off the love chair and coming behind Harry, taking a look at the painting over his shoulders.

He stays silent. Worryingly so.

“I— I know it’s not great, I’m not even decent at painting, as I told you, I do that just ‘cause it’s relaxin— “

“Harry,” interrupts Louis. He places a hand in between his shoulder blades and strokes there caringly. “Shut up. It’s great. You have your own style, and it’s really interesting. It’s beautiful. You have to finish this.”

Harry feels relief, for some reason. He nods, relishing in Louis’ touch, and the other boy smiles brilliantly.

“So. What do we do now?” He asks, because evidently posing as a painting subject was a quite demanding task, chaining all his energy, so he has to supply by wandering in the room and touching every single thing Harry owns, as if they were his.

“We could play scrabble?” Suggests Harry, tidying his tools. Louis looks daggers at him.

“You don’t want to kiss me but you think I’m sober enough to seriously play scrabble?”

Oh. Not scrabble then.

“Which, for your information, I am,” continues Louis. “I just don’t think it’s the best activity for this night.”

“And what would  you deem a suitable activity for this night?” inquires Harry, wriggling his eyebrows. He doesn’t do that on purpose, he swears. He just has a tendency for saying inappropriate things.

Louis doesn’t look impressed. “You’re literally 5,” he tells him, and sticks his tongue out at Harry, probably to convey the message. “I’ll put some music on,” Louis takes out his phone to do so, unlocks it and then frowns at the screen. “Oh. Niall called. And texted.”

Harry inhales sharply, frowning as well. This is when reality comes in, reminding them this is not what they’re supposed to be doing, that if it weren’t for a fortuitous coincidence they wouldn’t have nothing to do with each other.

Louis shows him a chat, with the last message reading a quite vague _‘lou u ok’._ Is Louis going to call him and make him pick him up now?

“I’m not answering. I’m going to let him think that I’ve been kidnapped. At least for a bit. It’s all his fault after all,” is what Louis says, almost as if he was reading Harry’s mind.

And Harry can only thank the gods for how Louis is, and should probably also thank this Niall guy with a bunch of roses for being such a shitty friend and letting Louis happen to his night.

In all this thinking, he realises he’s still focusing on the screen of Louis’ phone and as he goes to avert his stare, a glimpse of a something he hadn’t noticed before catches his attention.

“You have a Schiele portrait as a background,” he says, stopping Louis from putting the phone back in his pocket by holding his wrist.

“Yeah,” says Louis surprised, turning the screen slightly towards Harry. “He’s my— my favourite artist.”

Harry’s stomach flutters. “I love Schiele.” Louis blushes as if he’s been caught in some illicit activity. “I love this one painting.”

“Yeah,” whispers Louis quietly, trying not to look at Harry. Harry knows why. It’s because as time passes, they realise how similar and in tune they are, instead of running out of things to say and starting to get awkward and uncomfortable.

“There’s some stuff of his in Florence, it’s not far from here,” says Harry casually, still holding Louis’ wrist.

“I’d like to go see it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They don’t say anything, they don’t make a plan. The air is still unsure around them, fickle, like it could vanish by just blinking.

“So, anyway.” Louis clears his throat, turns around and busies himself with taking a better look at some of Harry’s stuff around the room. Harry’s heart lurches at how the boy moves in his flat, as if he had always lived here. And that, for some reason, makes Harry even more comfortable in it.

“I’m hungry,” communicates Louis, shaking Harry off his thoughts. He stands next to the vinyls shelf, arms crossed over his chest.

“You just ate!” Retorts Harry, eyes wide.

“I need chocolate,” argues Louis, moving to the kitchen area and opening a cupboard. He whimpers when he only finds teabags and tinned beans in it.

“I only have chocolate chips. Maybe cocoa powder. I could make hot chocolate?” suggests Harry.

Louis closes the cabinet door and turns to Harry, leaning against the kitchen top. “Boring.”

“Maybe we could bake some muffins?” Harry wants to punch himself. It’s three in the morning and he hasn’t got the slightest desire to bake muffins. Why does he have to be so compliant to Louis?

“Are you serious?” Louis’ eyes are glinting, and Harry wants to double-punch himself because that thing alone makes him so happy that he starts to think baking at three in the morning is actually the best idea he’s ever had.

“Yeah, if you want chocolate,” Harry is so, so lame. He’s happy there are no witnesses because nobody would let him live through this.

“You’re amazing! So, how do you bake?”

Harry is taken aback for a second, watching as Louis joins his hands together happily and stares at him, wrapped around his finger. And he realises that maybe...

“You’re telling me— you’ve never baked?”

“I usually show up when the house starts smelling good?” Offers Louis.

Harry’s grin threatens to break his whole face. That would be a nice show now, besides a great punishment for being so whipped. “A nice technique I must say.”

At that, Harry finally takes out his recipe book, a notebook lined in a fluffy pink fabric with bows on it, that his sister got him when he was about fifteen, where he writes all his trusted recipes. Louis looks at it with judgement and amusement but Harry doesn’t get fazed. He’s very proud of his collection of recipes, thank you very much. He takes all the time to select and try them and everything.

He takes all the ingredients from the cupboard as he checks them on the book, making sure they’ve got the right quantity of each of them, but when he gets to the fridge he stops, scratching his head. Uh.

“Lou,” he laments, turning around slowly to see Louis comfortably perched on the table.

“Yeah?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any milk,” he grits out, looking apologetically at the other boy.

“It’s fine love, I only want the muffins,” Harry can’t believe this boy. He also can’t believe he just called him _love._ He tries very seriously not to have a stroke.

“Lou, the milk is supposed to go into the _batter,_ ” he explains carefully, hoping not to get a tantrum in return.

“Oh,” is all Louis says.

“Maybe we could make cookies instead?” Offers Harry playfully, already looking for the recipe in his book. He’s pretty sure that doesn’t need any milk.

“But Harry! You said muffins, you can’t backtrack!”

Oh, there we go.

“Lou I’m sorry but we can’t make them, look at the recipe,” he flaunts it in front of Louis’ face, who doesn’t really look interested in it, rather prefers the dramatics.

“I can’t believe it,” he puts two hands on his hips. “You can’t lure me with the promise of muffins and then not follow through!”

“But what can I do? I can’t pull out milk from thin air, can I?”

“We could go and buy it.”

“Lou it’s like three in the morning.” It’s actually two thirty but it’s the concept that counts.

“We’ll find a convenience store, one of those off-licence open twenty four hours.”

“This is not London, Lou,” retorts Harry exasperatedly. Why can’t they just make cookies is beyond him. Cookies are better than muffins anyway.

“Oh.” Louis looks actually upset and Harry wants to take back his sharp words, first, maybe, and then punch himself. And then hug Louis.

“What about one of those vending machines places? They’re everywhere, I know there’s one next to the club because I bought a cheap beer off it,” suggests Louis then, as Harry tries to think frantically.

“But we need milk?”

“But vending machines sell everything these days. Come on, I know how to get there,” Louis is so unmoving on his ideas that he’s already sliding in his shoes, throwing casually a hand in his hair that Harry had quite messed up earlier.

“You… you sure you remember?” Harry can’t stop himself from asking, and in all honesty he’s also smirking. Louis scowls at him and Harry figures it’s better if he buttons hastily his shirt, looking then for a pair of boots and sliding them on. Louis looks at them (they’re silver) with some sort of disdain but doesn’t comment.

They head out, the breeze more persistent than what it looked like from the flat. Louis guides them, grabbing Harry’s hand and rushing through the streets. He’s only in his half-sleeved t-shirt, and Harry can only think he must be dying from the cold, and really wants to wrap him in his jacket, but he’s not sure Louis would like that, so he doesn’t.

They’ve done about half a mile when Louis suddenly stops dead on his tracks in front of a building, looks at it squinting, squeezing Harry’s hand tighter, some sour expression taking over his face.

“What’s wrong?” Asks Harry, starting to worry.

“This is my accommodation,” is Louis’ feeble answer.

_Oh._

“Oh.” So this is it. Harry feels a lump taking possession of his throat, making it impossible to swallow “You sure?” He almost doesn’t recognise his voice, buried under a choke.

Louis looks up at the façade of the building, lingering with his eyes on the green front door. “Pretty sure.”

Harry sighs. He knows perfectly what the premise is. The premise is that they’re gonna say goodbye now, because obviously Louis found his place and there’s no reason to kip with Harry or go back to his flat.

But Harry wasn’t ready, was he, not so early, not to separate ways right now, a half-harmed hug and he hasn’t even kissed him, not even asked for a phone number. There are so many things he doesn’t know, so many things he wanted to ask, to find out, to discover. It will all be rushed and he will have to go back to his lonely flat, and they will be lucky if they bump into each other again. He feels a stupid for not agreeing to kiss him, at least he would have had Louis for one night, instead of this. What the hell was he thinking?

Louis is looking at him now, he knows, but Harry can’t reciprocate. He feels so bad, kind of wants to cry.

“Harry- “ Louis’ voice is low and weak, and he squeezes his hand more. Harry still can’t look up.

“Hey. Let’s go find the stupid milk,” growls Louis abruptly, making Harry startle. He drags him unceremoniously by the hand, ignoring his building and brushing past it.

After realising what is happening, Harry smiles so so big he thinks his face is going to crumple.

“There it is!” cries Louis, after they’ve carried on along the road and turned left, spotting the sign of the vending machines place lightening the otherwise pretty dark alley.

Apparently, Harry has to take back his words because not only Louis managed to take them to the right place, but he was also right about the milk, like, there are actually tiny boxes of _milk_ among snacks and bottles of water.

“This is amazing,” comments Harry, taking some time to look at the other dubious products.

“Come on,” urges Louis, jumping on his spot and pointing alternately at the slot for the coins and at the milk, from behind the protective glass. “ _Muffins_.”

Harry stares at him blankly. “I’ve only got pounds,” shrugs the other boy, unfazed. Harry sighs, fishes some euros from his pocket and puts them into the slot, while Louis happily presses the correct buttons.

“I can’t believe they actually have milk,” says Harry disbelieving as said milk is dropped into the compartment. Louis picks it, only to discard it in Harry’s hands. Because obviously.

“I told you. Now let’s go!”

They go.

“I actually know where we are. We can take another route to go back and cross the bridge, so you can see the river. It’s very pretty,” says Harry, once they’re back on the main road, panting a bit for how fast Louis is going and making sure he doesn’t drop the milk he’s holding with just one hand, because the other one is safely wrapped around Louis’.

“Oh,” Louis stops. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Noticing his struggle, Louis releases Harry’s hand, so that he can hold the milk better, and fits his arm under Harry’s, making his heart flutter.

They walk with a more relaxed pace after that, enjoying the walk and the view. Harry grins when he sees Louis studying attentively the buildings, taking in the colour scheme and all the details and the way the lights hit them.

“The moon is very pretty tonight. It’s a full moon,” says Louis, when they have to stop at a crossing and wait for a green light. They can take ages to show up.

“It looks like a ghost vessel,” says Harry. He loves watching the moon. Or telling other people to do so. With Louis, though, he didn’t need to.

“True. Or like a ball of semolina,” says Louis, looking at the white satellite. Harry hums in agreement, flicking that strand of hair that every time ends up stubbornly over Louis’ forehead as if it was his most important prerogative and not just an excuse to touch Louis more. He then hums at Louis’ comment and accepts it, because in these few hours he has learnt how that’s what you’re supposed to do with Louis, accept and if you can, love everything he does. He hums. as Louis doesn’t even flinch from the contact but rather keeps staring at the moon.

“You’re not like the others, I’ve seen a few. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon,” recites Harry softly, like lullaby.

“That’s Fahrenheit 451,” says Louis, staring intently at Harry now, a strange light in his eyes.

“Correct. It’s probably my favourite book,” reveals Harry, tugging Louis to cross the street together as the traffic light turns green and hoping he’s not lingering on his words, that came out before he could realise what he was implying. Too fucking soon. Too fucking before than soon, even.

They finally arrive to the bridge, the night enrapturing the town and the lights all orange and yellow, making it pretty. It’s quite a stunning view, with the moon so high up on the black river, the lampposts reflecting in the water.

Louis is looking breathlessly at it, trying to take it all in. Harry is quite proud about it, as if the sight was a painting and he were the painter.

“This is actually very amazing. I kinda want a picture.”

Harry promptly gets Louis’ phone from his back pocket, balancing the milk boxes in his arms, and goes to snap a picture of him.

“Wait, no! I want a picture with you too! A picture of my first proper day here.”

Harry smiles blushingly but content and turns the camera, an arm around Louis’ neck bringing him against his body, the other holding the milk, eye on the screen to make sure it’s in the frame as well together with both their faces. They cannot forget about the milk adventure. Louis giggles and reaches with one hand to touch Harry’s one, dangling from his shoulder. They smile happily, and the picture turns out absolutely perfect, at least in Harry’s opinion. He wants it. Maybe that’s a good excuse to ask for Louis’ number.

“I really, really love it. And you’re really warm. And it’s really freezing,” says Louis whimpering, rubbing his hands together after pocketing his phone.

Harry doesn’t answer. That’s the clue he was waiting for to tug Louis under his jacket. He does so, and hurries him to get home, for how much they can while walking basically hugged to each other.

When they’re back at the flat, Louis disappears inside Harry’s room as soon as he gets started with the muffins, laying out all the ingredients on the table. There are some noises coming from the bedroom and Harry arches his eyebrows in worry, lifting his gaze from the bowl. “Lou? Are you okay?”

“Fine!” Is Louis’ hasty reply. As Harry is about to go and check on him he emerges from the room, wearing one of Harry’s jumpers, a gray boxy one he found in Brick Lane ages ago, in which Louis is practically swimming.

He rolls the sleeves so they’re not so long anymore and Harry has to seriously restrain himself from cooing.

“So, what can I do?” says Louis, not acknowledging the whole jumper issue, while is the only thing Harry can think of, think that Louis can smell him in the thick fabric and that his skin will smell like him now.

“Uh- You can- melt the dark chocolate. I prepared a pot and a bowl for you on the hob, you can pour the chocolate chips and melt them in there.”

“Seems easy.”

Harry smiles, handing Louis a wooden spoon.

“What is this for?”

Harry stares at him. “Mixing the chocolate? So it melts faster?”

“Oh. Sure, I knew that.”

“Obviously,” Harry smirks, smacking a kiss on the top of Louis’ head, who knows why, and then blushing, resorting to his cracking eggs and whisking them with the sugar to avoid any odd look. They work intently, giving each other their backs.

At some point Harry feels like starting to sing I Feel Pretty from West Side Story. He always likes to sing some good musical tune when he’s baking. He nearly knocks over the bowl, though, when Louis joins him in a quite unlikely duet. And Louis’ voice is so fucking nice, is the thing.

It takes about another song for the chocolate to be melted. Harry helps Louis pouring it into the mixture and gives him the honour to give it a final stir before they can fill the muffin tray.

Harry lifts the bowl, starting to pour carefully. “Help with the spoon, Lou,” he instructs, and Louis executes, not without some mixture dripping over the table.

“I’ll take care of that,” says Louis, gathering the drops of chocolaty mixture with his thumb and licking it off. “This is amazing!” He then moves to lick the remnants on the spoon, making a mess of his face.

“Oh, Lou. You’ve got chocolate all over your face,” laughs Harry.

Louis pouts. “Where?”

“Here, let me..” he says without thinking, reaching out with one hand at the same time Louis licks around his mouth, getting Harry’s finger too. Harry is about to die.

He swipes his thumb across Louis’ chin, leaving it clean, and then licks the batter off his finger, despite his cheeks burning.

He gets flustered when his eyes lock with Louis’, who’s staring at him stock-still, and he takes a step back. What is he _doing_.

“Uh- I— Sorry,” he manages to croak.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. Are we in _Chocolat_? I bet you planned the whole thing for this scene.”

Harry laughs, thankful for Louis’ ability to dissolve the awkward in every situation. “I’m not sure there was anything like that in _Chocolat_.”

“Excuse me, but what would you know? How small were you when _Chocolat_ got out?”

“Not that smaller than you!”

“Whatever you say Harold. Now, wrap up those muffins because I am in need of chocolate please.” Louis crosses his arms over his chest, expectant air back on his face.

“They take 15 minutes to cook Lou.”

“Oh.”

“Did you... think they would be ready to eat?” Harry takes the tray and puts it into the oven he had pre-heated when Louis was looking for his jumper, setting the timer.

“Well I suppose I didn’t think that far. But what do we do now?”

Louis looks around in the room. But they have already done every single activity he could think of, especially for being basically four in the morning. Sleeping is apparently not an option, even though Harry could fall asleep standing on his feet.

“Maybe we can cuddle?” He suggests hesitantly.

Louis looks happy at that, jumping off the table and dragging Harry to the love chair. “I thought you didn’t want to touch me to save my maidenhood,” he grins devilishly, pinching at his side, making him jump.

“Hey. Don’t make fun of me just because I don’t want to take advantage.”

“I know, sorry.” Louis reaches out to give Harry a kiss on the cheek, just because, and he snatches his position on the couch. Harry lays on top of him, Louis spooning him this time.

“Is this weird?” Asks Louis, arms around Harry’s middle.

“No, I like being cuddled. If I’m not crushing you.”

“No, I mean,” Louis gestures with one hand. “That yesterday we didn’t know each other and now- “

“I think it’s weird only if you want to make it weird,” tells him Harry, cheek squished on Louis’ chest.

“Okay.”

“‘Cause like...I don’t know about you…”

Harry can already feel by the pacing of Louis’ chest that he’s about to make a terrible joke.

“But you’re feeling 22?’”

Harry groans. “Well, I _am_. But also, I really like you, and everything is feeling right in this moment, and I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.” It’s maybe too much. He hopes Louis can accept it.

“Yeah.”

“I was like. Really missing home and you appeared and it was like…magic. Fate,” he tells him. He doesn’t know why he tells him. “But not just because of  the nostalgy. I feel like I really click with you?”

“Like a fairytale,” Louis says, and Harry hums. “Or like a Shakespeare play.”

“No,” says Harry categorically. They don’t need the drama and the feuds, definitely. Or the deaths.

Louis giggles, and it’s in that moment that the oven alarm goes off.

“Muffins!” says Louis excitedly climbing off the love chair and rushing for the oven, almost toppling Harry down in the haste to get there first.

“Careful Lou!” warns him Harry, whimpering at the lack of a warm ball of human being around him, but following said ball in the kitchen nonetheless.

“I’m not a child!” he says, but he manages to burn himself as he touches the top of a muffin, screeching in pain. “Fucking hell! It’s liken molten rock!”

“Well thank you for making it believable,” singsongs Harry, taking charge of the tray with a pair of mittens and placing it to cool on the windowsill.

Once the muffins are safe, he takes Louis’ hand in between his mittened ones and without even thinking about it, places a kiss on the injured fingertip.

The look Louis gives quite literally makes his heart skip a beat.

 

**L.**

 

As they wait for the muffins to cool off (Louis is not going anywhere near them until Harry tells him they’re safe to touch) Harry decides to make a little nest by the window door, half on the balcony, half inside, because it’s too small but the air outside is still nice.

He amasses all the cushions he owns together, including the couch’s ones, and brings out a blanket. He even lights up a candle, that smells disgustingly sweet, but Louis won’t say anything because it looks like Harry enjoys it.

“Is this a love nest?” He teasingly as he finally comes back from the kitchen bearing a plate with two muffins. They smell amazing, unlike the candle.

“Not yet.” Harry’s answer is more serious than what Louis was expecting. He looks up at him from where he’s kneeling on the cushions, plumping them up.

“Romeo and Juliet fell in love in one night,” tells him Louis pointedly, plopping down next to him and offering a muffin, plate discarded somewhere.

“Well yeah, and look at how that ended,” with one bite, Harry almost devours the whole thing. So much for savouring things.

“But their love stayed,” insists Louis.

“True,” he says sleepily. He doesn’t add more, instead he lays on the cushions, opening his arms to accommodate Louis.

As soon as his arms are safely wrapping him, nestling up to him, Harry he seems to start dozing off, breath suddenly heavy and chest pacing up and down, mouth slightly agape.

He is seriously _asleep_. Who even falls asleep in the span of ten seconds?

Louis feels very affronted at not being paid attention and starts to play with Harry’s face, but he must have a pretty heavy slumber. or be a very good actor because he doesn't flinch one bit, not even when Louis pulls at his cheeks.

“Fine,” he surrenders, finally dropping his whole weight on Harry and curling up on his chest. Harry sighs satisfiedly, tightening his hold unconsciously, and given he is asleep Louis won’t have to stifle his pleased smirk.

He closes his eyes, cheek on Harry’s heartbeat, and with that steady rhythm he, too, drifts off in no time.

He’s still nestled up on Harry’s chest when he wakes up the morning next, in the same exact position, and he must give some credit to the boy for managing to keep them like that, basically anchored together. He will be full of pains later, probably, but Louis doesn’t take pity on him yet and nuzzles better on his chest.

It’s probably still not technically morning, as the sun is still trying to set. It must be difficult for it, doing that so early every morning. Louis understands the struggle.

He looks up at Harry, his head curved over him, arms around his shoulders keeping him safe. He’s quite comfy. Louis spends some moments just staring at him, maybe a bit creepily, at the soft expression on his face, and reminiscing about the shenanigans of the past night with a smile tugging at his lips.

Then he suddenly remembers something important, extracts himself from Harry’s hold and heads to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror, throwing a hand in his hair and takes some mouthwash, rinsing his mouth several times. There.

He goes back to the balcony then, positioning himself on Harry again, straddling his hips, tugging at his shirt with urgency.

“Harold.”

Harry finally opens his eyes, blinking sleepily, and he’s even more pretty like this, hair in his bun all messy, face relaxed.

“Can I kiss you now?” Asks Louis irreverently.

Harry blinks more, probably trying to focus and make out the situation. Then he places his hands on Louis’ hips. “You’re a persistent little thing aren’t you?” He complains. He’s smiling, though.

Louis rolls his eyes, planting two hands on Harry’s chest to leverage himself.

“I’m not.”

Harry smiles more, quite bashfully, cupping Louis’ face in his hands, looking sincerely in his eyes. “I gave thee mine before thou didst request it.”

Louis’ eyes must widen quite comically. “Shut up,” he tells him, closing the distance between them, mouths brushing imperceptibly. “Shut. Up,” he manages to demand again, before their lips are joined for good, enraptured in a kiss so tender yet passionate, so longed and so projected, that ends when the sun has finished rising. And it’s good, incredibly so, it doesn’t get ruined by the expectations, by the pressure. Harry is caring and sweet with his lips taking him apart and still holding him in his arms as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

“You don’t have morning breath,” deadpans Louis, panting, as soon as they part. Harry is squinting his eyes in the sun, scrunching his whole face and Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself or with his endearment. “Why don’t you have morning breath? You’re pretty, you know Romeo and Juliet, you baked muffins for me at three at night and you don’t have morning breath. You’re perfect.” Louis is honestly amazed.

Harry only grins, the mynx. “So, what are you doing tonight?” He asks innocently, suspiciously ignoring Louis’ question and distracting him by stroking his ribs from under the jumper.

“Surely not going to some shitty club. Maybe murder Niall,” Louis takes on a sour expression. Yes, he has a task to carry out. For no, though, he will enjoy Harry’s cuddles.

“What about a date before that?” wonders Harry. “Then you can murder Niall.”

Louis smirks and gives him one more kiss, and then another, and they last unnecessarily long, but Louis has had to wait until _now,_ so he can have it.

“Will you help me hide the body?” he asks, tugging at a strand of hair that escaped Harry’s bun.

Harry doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

Louis grins satisfied, hungrily taking Harry’s lips again. It only takes one moment for Harry to open up to him, going pliant and melting in the kiss.

Louis thinks maybe he really has found someone special this time.

And yeah.

Yeah, maybe Verona won’t suck _that much_ after all.

**Author's Note:**

> glowstojevskij on tumblr  
> :)


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